HOME | DD

Description
Buses rolled across the well-worn streets above. The subway rumbled with indistinct chatter, and the light above the girl was buzzing. It flickered every now and then.
The girl considered telling the old man beside her to move-- she was pretty sure the light was bound to break, releasing whatever gas gave off its dying light. She stared at him; maybe she should let him sleep. But he'd have to wake up when his train came, right? Then he'll probably sleep in the rumbling of the train too. No, saying hi meant saying goodbye.
She looked up again at the cracked light. Then she glanced at the crumbling stairs with their rusting railings. Light poured out despite the dark that foreshadowed rain this winter day. Luckily, she had left home with an umbrella.
. . .
The old man began to wake up. He felt somewhat alarmed, forgetting where he was. His eyes rolled across the scenery; dark tunnel, wet floor, and passing humans. Sitting up, he noticed a girl beside him, and their eyes met. He smiled. She gave a small grin, but scooted away.
Now he noticed how uncomfortable this bench made his back feel. Almost like his spine wasn't aligned, scoliosis-like. He stretched his arms up, and felt his little spine bones (vertebrae?) grinding against one another. Trapped bits of gas between them hissed and spit. Or, that's how he imagined it.
. . .
She had moved to the other side of the bench when the man woke up. It might have been rude, but raggedy old men just seemed more peaceful when asleep. Plus, meeting people was bad today.
Her hand moved to her side, she felt the small notebook snuggled in her pocket, protected from the outside world. Pushing up her sleeve, her watch revealed it to be ten past two o'clock. Frowning, she stood up and went up to the yellow line. Down the tunnel, there was nothing but the swishing and whistling of wind. It played with her hair, and she liked the breeze, but the yellow line glared at her. 'Police line do not cross,' is what it probably would've liked to say, but it could never be as intimidating as that.
She patted the crackling sunflower paint with her foot, and sat back down on the bench.
The sensation was nice over there, and she wanted to write it down. The old man was twirling his thumbs around, and wasn't paying her any attention, so she figured he wouldn't peek at her notebook.
Unzipping her jacket, the cold pervaded her thin shirt. She played tug of war with the hidden pocket that clutched the inside of her jacket. It wanted what little heat it could get.
. . .
He wanted to stretch his legs before the train came, or he might not be awake enough to make it. The cold swam around his face; maybe just the climate would wake him up. Considering hot coffee was the thing he needed most right now, and did not obtain it, his body willed him to fall asleep. Joints creaking, he tried sitting up straight. Maybe he should be a good influence for the girl, show her that you're not supposed to fall asleep alone in public.
Thinking of which, he turned toward her. She had a pocket book in her lap, and was scribbling something down with a pencil shorter than his pinky finger. He turned away; he didn't want to look like a predator. Curiosity tugged at his sleeve, and he turned to see what it wanted.
Judging by her shaking hands, yet perspiring forehead, she was sick. Or a druggie, but that didn't seem likely. Suddenly, he felt worried. Hopefully she was going back home.
He looked at what his curiosity was asking about. She was writing in cursive, and quickly at that. He was glad they still taught cursive in school, it was an artistic sort of thing. Although a pain for his son, who was dyslexic...
He would probably have asked what she was writing about, what had inspired her, and why she insisted on writing in cursive, but he didn't know if she knew sign language. What was the point of trying?
. . .
She noticed his eyes blinking at her notebook, so she swiftly shut it and looked up.
The man looked alarmed, but gave an abashed smile and turned away. She felt bad, and chuckled. "Sorry, if I alarmed you or something. I'm just not used to people looking over at my work."
He waved at the air in an, it's okay gesture.
"Well, it's not really work per say, I mean I'm not getting paid for it or anything." She blabbed on, and felt foolish. "No, I mean, it's uh..." She collected herself. "I'm just writing in my journal."
The old man's brown eyes crinkled in a smile. He looked amused, but disappointed.
She chuckled nervously, why wasn't he saying anything? "Not what you were expecting?"
. . .
He shook his head. With his arms, he spoke. 'It's not that, I just wish we could have a conversation.'
The girl bit her lip, and went red. "Oh gosh, could you not understand me this entire time?"
He chuckled and gesticulated. Pointing to his ears, he threw a thumbs up; to his chin, a thumbs down. He gave her a hopeful side smile and slowly her face lit up.
"Oh, you can't speak?"
The man nodded.
"But you can hear me?"
Sighing, he nodded. Yes.
She laughed in relief. "Okay good." Shrugging, she went on. "Sorry, I don't know sign language..."
A wind tumbled down the stairs, and the girl's hair flapped around. She sneezed. "Cold weather today, huh?"
He nodded, his eyebrows going up as if saying "Oh yeah."
This girl seemed nice, but what was she doing alone?
. . .
She was a little more anxious to get on the train now. How could she keep up a conversation with a mute?
The pitter-patter of rain caressed her ears and blended with the rest of the scuffling around the subway. In a few moments, she could hear the squeaking of shoes as they came down into the shelter of the subway. More people hustled by and the wind was no longer friendly to only her.
A dark hand waved a few inches from her face, and she blinked. She needed to pay more attention. The old man pointed to her notebook, and a curious face stroked him. Eh, she had nothing to lose, right? Probability stated that she would never see him again.
"It's a journal that I keep notes in I guess. Just pretty things I want to write down." Pretty things in ugly times.
He smiled and pointed at himself.
"You too?"
Nod.
"Nice." She almost waited for a response, but went on. "Days like these especially. I find the elements like wind or rain to be very inspirational, I guess."
. . .
His smile grew. She was a writer, and if he had had his papers with him he would've shown her the things he wrote. What was funny was that he found the summer to be more of his writing season. It just seemed more inviting.
There was a rumbling noise that the man thought was just the scuffling and mumbling of passersby. But he knew better. He checked his ticket. 2:30
He tapped his wrist while looking at the girl. She had nice brunette hair, wavy but frizzling in the humidity. His sister's hair did the same.
She showed her watch, 2:29. "Is that your train?"
He nodded. Disappointed, because their temporary bubble had been nice. His plans were slightly ruined... but there were other trains... Worry crept into his eyes, would she be okay? Alone here?
Her voice broke his daze, as she put her open notebook into his worn chocolate hands. "What's your name?"
The pinky pencil was tucked in a page; he slipped it away. The pencil scratched the off white page, and the black graphite bled into it.
Charlie.
"It was nice meeting you, Charlie." He put his hand out, and her smaller hand hugged his.
Standing up, his knees protested, his stomach growled, and his mind felt not brighter, but less hazy.
He turned back toward the girl, and pointed at the journal again.
She frowned.
He opened his hands, leaning closer. The notebook rubbed his hands as she let go.
He scribbled, ‘What's your name? It was a pleasure talking to you, but be cautious when you're alone here.’
She read over his shoulder. "Julie. I'll be okay, the wind is at my back and the sky is overhead, right?"
He heard the train bells beckoning him to come forth. Head turned up, the girl said what he was thinking. "The gray concrete's all I can see right now, but there's got to be a sky somewhere."
This girl seemed overly optimistic, not too serious. Sometimes he didn't click with people, but somehow she'd talked enough for the both of them.
She tucked her book into her inner pocket and zipped her jacket. "You seem like a good ol' person. So have fun on the train, and have a nice day."
Another thumbs up. You too.
. . .
The girl sat down on the bench. She had lost her sense of self for a moment, and felt shaken.
Julie pulled out her ticket, her plan was already set up, and she was going to run away. She was supposed to run away.
'…but be cautious around here.' Another thumbs up, as if he was saying 'you too.'
But here were so many pretty things here, despite an ugly life. Her notebook was supposed to remind her of the pretty things.
'Charlie' was now sprawled in her journal.
Julie stared at the crawling train, carrying another pretty thing away. Somehow the hi and goodbye wasn't hurtful today. Her decision was set. She was going to go back home.
. . .
He had lost a sense of self for a long while. It still wasn't completely there. But the girl with messy brunette hair had reminded him of things. He had a son that everyone liked. He could make him smile. They could make each other smile.
His stories lay at home, and he hated wasting good material. They sat unfinished, waiting to either jump in front of a train or talk to a girl with long brunette hair. Frizzling and waving liked his sister's. Their spines' hurt, longing to move and yet being scared that, since they are so old and cracked, will break when touched.
Silly, how they didn't break. They were going to break. They were supposed to break.
'Cold weather today, huh?' But there was a sky somewhere up there, and his son could push his back into tomorrow. Maybe he wouldn't jump at the next stop.
He'd jump after he finished his stories, something to leave behind, he figured. It wouldn't be as much of a waste then. Maybe tell his son a few more life stories. Then he would come back and sit on the bench.
She talked a lot. 'You seem like a good ol' guy.' His material was good too. What would happen if they crashed into a train? Charlie wondered. They would break and scatter. You wouldn't be able to piece it back together again. Such a thoughtful story though. It'd be a waste.
. . .
Julie walked the streets, alone again. But she wasn't running away from anything. She grabbed a free newspaper off its stand. The crisp autumn air allowed the paper to bend at its own will.
She looked at the comic page. The round, gleeful characters made puns and advertised some new brand of chips. She kept turning the pages, and wasn't looking ahead. Someone bumped into her.
"Oh, sorry," she mumbled.
"It's alright."
She sighed. Her left hand had thankfully kept the page she had left off. But it opened another page.
Subway Train Going Eastbound Stopped For Maintenance
That wasn't her train was it? No, so it didn't matter.

Back home it was quiet until she turned on the TV. The paper was vague, and only explained traffic, not the '...reasons police are not releasing yet.' She half wanted to know what those reasons were.
She remembered Charlie, and how he stared confusingly at her watch and the train. The train was on time, and he was early, what was the problem? Maybe she could've asked, but then he would've missed the train and would have to wait for another one.
The ticket would have gone to waste. It was a good thing she didn't make him late.
. . .
Charlie sat on a bench. It was winter again, but his stories were finished, and his son was going back to college because he wanted to become an engineer for buildings and structures. Plenty of those still needed to be made.
He patted his side, a longer one of his stories, Summer Travels, was curled up. Apparently people liked it a lot, it had a homely feel to it but was fast paced. Comfortably fast, like a train. His son was into physics, and explained to him yet another thing that he would not have cared one bit about –had he not been the boy's father.
They were in the car. His son was driving them to Charlie's sister's house.

"You know what I find interesting?"
He rolled his eyes, Physics? He gesticulated, even though his son was focused on the road.
"I learned a long while ago, that we can't sense speed, but acceleration."
A big question mark popped into his head.
"Like in this car, you can't feel us going 55 miles per hour because we're constantly at that speed. But if I slowed down or sped up, like during a turn or to get into the right lane, you'd feel it. When we're constantly at a speed, it's almost like we're not moving at all. We're comfortably fast or comfortably moving, I guess."
What he said made sense, or else you probably couldn't walk around an airplane that well.
"So that makes me think that that's the reason why we can't feel the earth spinning. Because it's always moving."
Sometimes we don't feel the days passing by unless they're slowing down or speeding up. Such a monotonous spin goes unnoticed and uncared about. We forget that the world will keep spinning, and new days will come to pass. Charlie pondered. What a nice thought, I should write it down.

He did. It was curled up in his pocket. Ready to either slow or speed up, as long as it felt movement. Things would not go unnoticed.
Charlie understood that no matter what, the world would keep spinning. He had finished what he was supposed to leave behind. He hoped no one took it too hard.
. . .
'Yesterday a man was killed by the oncoming eastbound train...'
She didn't go to the subway yesterday.
'Police have not yet identified the body...'
How can you identify a broken body?
'Officials say that the train will probably be back online in a day or two...'
You can't identify a broken soul.
'Commuters who usually take this train are suggested by the company to make other plans, more specifically, by...'
Make other plans because someone you don't know committed suicide?
Make other plans because someone you didn't truly know committed suicide.
Zip. Shfshf. Click.
Zip up your jacket. Shove your shoes on. Click the door shut.
Splish. Splash. Sigh.
Splish goes the sidewalk. Squish goes the shoes. Sigh stops the human.
"Sorry, you can't go down there for the next couple of days, miss."
"Why not?"
The guard sighed again. "Do you see the police tape? They're cleaning up a mess down there."
"What happened?"
"Some poor soul jumped in front of the train. The police are sure about that."
"Who jumped?"
A strange look crossed the freezing face. "Why? You think you know the guy?"
She paused, what was she thinking... "No. No, of course not. I would hope not. I'm just curious, that's all."
"Well then, keep an eye out on the news."
The girl peeked past the tape, down the crumbling steps, and past the rusting railings. Right there was the bench where she had met the old man.
Behind the bench was supposed to be the tunnel that lead eastbound, but lanky, pale screens blocked her view. The place wasn't supposed to be this cold and full of dread. It wasn't meant for that at all. To Julie it was meant for a little bubble on a bench, in which it felt homely, yet fast-paced.
"I wonder if he had a family."
"What?"
"I met an old black man here once. I'm curious to know if he had a family or not. You know, anybody else who would take his death hard." She turned, her head down, to go back home.
A hand fell on her shoulder. "Miss, do you know the man down there?"
"No. If my paranoia is correct, then I guess so. I'm sure I'd recognize his face from far away, but I didn't really know the man, I guess."
The voice sounded sympathetic. "The investigation has been going on for a day and a half already. If you want to come back in a few hours, we'll have an identity for him then."
"I'll keep an eye out for the news."
She felt for her notebook, but found an empty pocket. Her pretty things lay at home.
. . .
"Come this way please." A woman said.
"..."
She pulled down the waterproof sheet.
"Do you recognize him?" a man asked.
The man couldn't breathe. "...He's my father, Charlie Brandt."
"I'm sorry." Their words were supposed to mean something.
The woman slid the cloth back over the man's face.
"..."
A light sob broke the silence.
. . .

"You're actually back."
"You sound surprised."
"Well, you don't seem related to the man..."
"What makes you say that?"
"He was an old black guy, and you're--"
My cousins are black. "Do they know his name now?" She could see police wrapping up their belongings, that portion of the subway would be opened soon again.
"Charles Brandt."

Somehow, she felt empty. He hadn't told much to her, but to be cautious. Was he a hypocrite then? Cautious, safe, and alive are different words with different connotations...
She pulled out her notebook, and nodded to the guard. "Have a nice day."
Walking back home, she paid attention to the sky and the breeze, but her pencil couldn't reach the paper. When home was in reach, she went past it. She half wished another stranger would come along and tell her to be safe; a 'go home' message that she had to swallow. She ended up at the park. There were benches that kids tumbled around, but she was careful to be around them. A young mother relaxed at one of them. Maybe they could talk.
The young girl shook her head: that was she and Charlie's thing. They had their own little bubble where distractions could happen for a moment, and there was something precious in that. Her pencil reached her notepad. Julie knew what she could write about. She would write about Charlie and other pretty things.